


Journey Into Mortality

by MrEvilside



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Established Relationship, Extremis, M/M, Norse Myths & Legends, Terminal Illnesses, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrEvilside/pseuds/MrEvilside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Loki is on yet another journey. This one journey, though, is different from any other he has ever experienced. This is because it is the very first time in his long, ever-lasting life, that the God of Mischief and Lies doesn’t travel for his own benefit.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journey Into Mortality

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: I played with Norse Mythology quite a lot in this fic and I regret absolutely nothing, just so you know.  
> Once again, thanks to qwanderer for her amazing beta-reading.
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Loki Odinson—”_

_“I believe he would like “Laufeyson” better.”_

_“Dearest sister, I’d love it if you could avoid interrupting me. Think you can do that for your ol’ sis Skuld? Thanks. As I was trying to say, Loki – whoever his father is – is on yet another journey. This one journey, though, is different from any other he has ever experienced. This is because it is the very first time in his long, ever-lasting life, that the God of Mischief and Lies doesn’t travel for his own benefit. His journey will be quite lengthy; not perilous, for he is a powerful god, but exhausting both for his body and his soul…”_

_“But, sister…?”_

_“What now, Verðandi?”_

_“Will he succeed?”_

_“Oh, I don’t know yet. I’m only the storyteller, after all. The end of the story, be it good or bad, is always up to the main character. What do you think,_ _Urðr_ _? Is he going to fail?”_

_“Art thou not the Warden of Future, Skuld? Why would thou ask me, who only knoweth the past?”_

_“You should know that it’s the past that defines the future, sis.”_

_“Nonetheless, opinions mean nothing to Fate. If he is to be doomed, he shall be.”_

 

*

 

Tony Stark is aging beautifully.

The problem is, Loki isn’t.

They don’t talk about it: they have been taught not to show their weaknesses, but to deal with them by themselves. It doesn’t matter it was Howard, it was Odin who taught it, whereas Pepper, whereas Frigga tried to persuade them of the opposite – it was etched into their skin as children, it still marks them deeply now, fifty years later, five millennia later. Whenever Pepper or Frigga says _“you don’t have to do it alone”_ , Howard or Odin’s voice echoes in their ears, always louder, always stronger, _“asking for help is the first step to losing”_.

Tony thinks he can face his mortality on his own. It isn’t that big of a deal, after all: he is still a genius, only he starts to forget things; he still drinks too much, only he gets wasted much faster; he still works on his suits, only he can’t wear them anymore.

He has gotten over PTSD, Coulson’s and Happy’s deaths, several threats to the planet and other almighty superhero stuff together with more human Tony Stark shit – he can sure as hell bear some more birthdays than twenty years ago. Except when he looks at himself in the mirror and sees grey hair and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, he holds onto the sink until his knuckles turn white and his fingers ache and _fuck, I’m getting old_.

Loki thinks he can face Stark’s mortality on his own. It isn’t the first time he will outlive one of his lovers, after all: not many can boast a god’s longevity and Loki is renowned for oftentimes mingling with alien creatures to annoy the Ӕsir.

It is never easy, yet never has he felt the desire to keep one of them by his side everlastingly – never has he met such a lively mind, such a witty tongue, such a missing heart to match his own; never has he spared a mortal more than a disdainful glance, never has he been faithful for so long to the same bedmate.

When S.H.I.E.L.D.’s more capable physicians diagnose the man with hepatic encephalopathy and not even his _seiðr_ can heal the damage alcohol has done to his system, Loki finds out he can’t and breaks down.

Stark laughs at the oddity of the name – two complicated words, when _death_ is only five letters long. He laughs and it sounds like his requiem.

“Hey,” he smiles, realizing what kind of look the god is giving him, “what’s with the long face? It isn’t as bad as it sounds. Well, unless you’re sad because I’m going to survive another twenty years at least. In that case, yeah, it _is_ as bad as it sounds, sorry pal.”

Loki chuckles, bitter and broken and hopeless, and he has laughed at himself like that so many times that Tony doesn’t realize he is laughing at him now instead.

It actually isn’t as bad as it sounds, at first, and both of them allow themselves to hope.

Then it gets worse, although still manageable. The man’s memory fails more often than not, his eyesight deteriorates and his reflexes slow down, but he isn’t a teenager anymore and it seems almost natural.

Until the day Stark loses consciousness and doesn’t wake up.

Loki isn’t at Stark Tower when it happens, he isn’t even on Earth, for that matter; after failing to reach him, JARVIS calls for Pepper and Rhodey and alerts S.H.I.E.L.D. as well. Less than an hour later, Tony is in one of their hospitals, still comatose, surrounded by wires, beeping machines and so much white he would probably tell the god something sassy about it, if he were awake.

Only he isn’t and Loki teleports into his room two hours later.

He pays no attention to the black old man and the middle-aged redhead woman sitting nervously in the hallway, waiting for either Stark to show any sign of life or the god to turn up. All he can see is how pale Stark’s face is, how small and fragile does his frame look and how huge and dreadful does the medical machinery appear in comparison.

“They said they’re not sure if he’s going to recover.” Pepper stands in the doorway, bracing herself as though she would fall on her knees if she let go. However, her gaze is steady and her shoulders don’t tremble. From her, Loki has learnt that strength comes in many shapes.

He doesn’t turn. He can’t tear his eyes off the emaciated form under the sheets. His voice is ice and steel. “How much time?”

 _Does he have_ lays between them unsaid, yet not unheard.

The woman breathes in, exhales. The words come out of her mouth with surprising ease, compared to the world crashing down inside of her. “If he doesn’t wake up, two weeks at best.”

Loki has no reaction, as if the revelation has frozen him – if Stark could, he muses absent-mindedly, he would make a quip about him already being a Frost Giant.

It hurts, though in a different way than ever before.

As a child, the god experienced the throbbing pain of bruises and cuts, which made his knees buckle and filled his eyes with tears; as a young man, he experienced the stinging one of unrequited love, which made him wander Asgard helplessly like a soul in Hel.

He doesn’t recognize this pain, which is turning his flesh inside out, plucking a hand into his mouth to drag his intestines out from there and lay them to burn in the sun while still being somehow connected to his body.

In comparison to _this_ , those pains from his past are petty nuisances.

 _This_ is torture, _this_ is madness, _this_ is discovering you are the son of the monsters that you fear falling from the Bifrost facing torture and subjugation by the hands of the Chitauri coping with solitude and humiliation in Asgard’s dungeons looking at Thor through the glass of a cell knowing he is better will always be better, all of _this_ and even more twisted together, like the rings of an endless chain of fire.

His gaze, still fixed on Stark’s peaceful face, hardens, his grip on the footboard of the bed – he doesn’t remember grabbing it in the first place – tightens. _What are you doing to me?_

Perhaps Pepper senses something is different, perhaps she acts on pure instinct, taking a step closer to the god. “Can you do anything for him?” The flicker of hope in her voice is nearly inaudible, nearly extinct already as she is speaking, like wet ashes – still fuming, but unable to actually give life to flames.

The woman is clever; she knows that had he the capacity to heal Stark, neither of them would be in that room now.

“Magic is no miracle,” is all that Loki murmurs, lips twisting into a grimace.

She knew, she knows, but it doesn’t make it easier to accept. “I suppose not,” she replies, voice tenuous and gentle, as though she is trying not to wake up a sleeping child. “Anyway, Tony doesn’t need miracles. He is enough of a miracle himself.”

The god doesn’t move, doesn’t respond readily; he widens his eyes the slightest bit, though, the only proof that he is surprised.

 _He doesn’t need magic, he needs you_ is what she intends to tell him without giving it away out loud.

“Yes, miss Potts,” he admits belatedly, “he is indeed.” He never stopped addressing her this way, despite it now being more of a joke than an attempt to irritate her as it once was.

Finally, he turns and stares right into her green eyes – as much as her face might have changed through the years, those eyes have never lost their brightness, the eyes of a fierce yet forgiving valkyrie, of a solid mountain enduring anything and everything.

He speaks, slow and meaningful. Honest, because what makes you a good liar is knowing when to tell the truth. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else with him.” _Anyone but you._

She folds her arms under her breasts and purses her lips into a severe line. “You don’t have to.”

He leaves. He doesn’t regard Stark one last time, doesn’t touch him, doesn’t say goodbye. Loki is nothing like that, Loki is a snake coiling around its prey, a spider crawling down one’s spine, a wolf with its fangs bared, blood staining its dark fur – this is why Tony wants him, longs for him, takes him.

 

Hel is as dark and cold as legends say it is.

Loki doesn’t suffer from low temperatures, but even he can’t suppress a shiver when met with the desolate sight of greyish, sterile flatlands whose only dwellers are desperate souls and grotesque skeletons, still wearing armor and weapons they will never be able to raise again.

He takes an uncertain step forward, when a feminine voice – at the same time as old as the Yggdrasill and as young as Midgard – stops him dead in his tracks. “What brings you to my realm so untimely, son of Odin?”

He waits, but she doesn’t grace him with her presence, so he replies: “I am here to ask a question, Queen of the Dead. Though please, do not call me names that do not suit me. I do not share Odin’s blood.”

“Oh, you do,” the goddess corrects him matter-of-factly, without any sort of sarcasm, and a corner of his mouth twitches in irritation, even though he forces himself to stay silent. “Tell me, what motive have I to satisfy your curiosity?”

Despite the burden he is carrying, Loki allows himself a small smile. He predicted that she would be reluctant, thus he came prepared. “May I remind you that, over all the millennia, I have never offended you nor have I laid harm on any of your servants? I have always been respectful. Now I expect you to do the same.”

She pauses, considers. Out of the corner of his eye, the god sees the shadows growing bigger and stronger, gathering slowly around him. “Is this a threat?”

His smile widens, turns feral as he takes a defensive stance. He doubts she will dare to attack him without any reason and face Odin’s rage, but it is still her reign and he can’t risk wasting his time. “Why, of course not. I come to you as a friend, not an enemy.”

Silence again, some of the shadows make a hasty retreat and Hela’s voice echoes once more, tinged with only the barest hint of aggravation. “I will hear you out.”

“Very well.” The god has to suppress a victorious grin and finds out it isn’t as difficult as usual, considering what his question is. “Is Anthony Stark of Midgard destined to your realm?”

There is a trace of derision and interest in Hela’s tone, although her words are careful and measured. She seethes with anger over Loki’s intimidation, yet she still knows her place. “Why would a god care about a mortal’s life?”

“This, my dear, is none of your business.” No terms, no matter how aggressive, could ever sound as dangerous as that _my dear_ does.

Another stretch of silence as she wonders whether to take offense or not.

She makes a wise decision.

“Anthony Stark has oftentimes danced on the thin line separating a vile man from a worthy warrior. The thread of his life is growing shorter and shorter; his time is soon to come. In the end, though, it is not I who will claim his soul.”

Loki finds no solace in her answer: instead of relaxing, his jaw tightens; instead of smoothening, his frown deepens. All of a sudden, he looks at himself from a detached point of view – an immortal god, offering himself as a sacrifice to the misery of Hel and to the wrath of its Queen. What for? _Who_ for? Is a little man really worth his while?

“Thank you.” The whisper is barely audible, not even he realizes to have spoken at first.

“Save your gratitude for those who ask for it. Now leave my reign and remember that you owe me, son of Odin,” Hela commands dryly, dropping the diplomatic façade she has forced onto herself until now.

Loki sees no reason to play nice any longer, either, and is relieved to comply.

After all, he has a long way to go.

 

After the desolation of the Realm of the Dead, the glorious fields of Valhalla, punctuated with the gold of corn and the red of poppies, feels like a resurrection – oh, the irony, Loki thinks.

A valkyrie is standing a few feet from him, beautiful and shining with her silver armor and blonde locks, tucked into several small braids tied together in an elegant ponytail peeking from under her helmet. Her sword is sheathed, hanging from her side, her arms crossed over her chest and her legs parted as she looks him over.

The god doesn’t move, undergoing the exam willingly, knowing he won’t get anything out of his journey if he isn’t accepted in this very moment.

“Loki of Asgard,” the woman recognizes him, no emotion in her bright blue eyes. In Valhalla, they don’t care about the petty quarrels of the gods; they serve Fate and Death, entities of such power that even he admits are far above all of them, far above the All-Father even. “You belong to neither this place nor Hel.” She stops briefly, as though waiting for any sign of surprise from him, but the God of Lies is far too aware of how fast news travels through the realms and he only cocks his head to the side, a silent motion for her to go on. “I heard you have begged an audience with the Queen of the Dead to inquire about a mortal’s fate. Then you come here, though I wonder what your purpose might be, since your curiosity has already been satisfied.”

Loki doesn’t speak until he is given permission to with a nod. When he does, his words are as sweet as ambrosia and his voice as delicate as a feather as he handles the only life and death he has ever been bothered about.

He can’t allow himself even the smallest mistake.

“You are right, Valkyrie, the Queen has been so merciful as to grant me my answers and the opportunity to walk away unharmed.” He has to struggle with his own chaotic self to keep the sarcasm off his tone. To think that there are parallel dimensions in which he and Hela are father and daughter – he shivers at the mere idea, or he would have, had he not had to maintain a straight face. “What takes me before you and your sacred sisters,” _who I know are watching us, ready to kill me, if they see it fit_ is what he doesn’t say and she understands anyway, “is quite a different matter. It is, in fact, more of a request than a question.”

With her helmet covering most of her face, Loki can only sense her eyebrow lifting by the sound of her voice. At least for the time being, her interest has been piqued. “Bring it on, then. We cannot make ill-timed promises, but we shall listen to you thoroughly.”

Listen, the god repeats bitterly to himself. They always claim that they _listen_ – Thor, the All-Father, even Death itself – yet they never quite do it.

However, he straightens his back, raises his chin as is expected of a prince – no matter who his parents are and where he is from, they can’t, won’t take _that_ away from him, ever – and takes the floor.

Both amongst gods and humans, many deem Loki a feeble entity. He doesn’t carry weapons, except for small, deceptive ones, useless in proper battles, and he doesn’t possess any destructive magic such as Thor’s booming thunder; his little tricks are entertaining – they concede – yet in the end they are only words. How does a petty word stand against a mighty sword, they wonder.

This is why, unlike Thor, Loki has sought neither for Ӕsir’s friendship nor for Midgardians’ devotion. He didn’t need foolish friends and thick-headed disciples, he would tell Frigga when he was still young.

Mindful of those conversations, some years before, she had asked, _“is Tony Stark any different from the other thick-headed disciples or must I believe you have softened?”_ , not actually trying very hard to hide her amused, fond smile.

Words are things of power, great, overwhelming power; Loki knows well and never underestimates them.

What drew – still draws – him to Stark in the first place is that he doesn’t either.

The only difference – the difference that had the man thrown out of a window many years before, that had Loki winning his trust and a place in his bed before he came to actually care for both – is that the god also knows when not to waste too many of them.

You don’t require long speeches to lead an army.

You don’t, either, when you are striving to save a life.

“What I dare to ask of you is Tony Stark’s mortality.”

A blonde, perfectly shaped eyebrow raises slowly. “You demand a very dangerous trade. Not even gods should be allowed to play with such fickle things as souls.”

“You speak a wise truth, my lady,” he nods, his smile thin and cold, “but my offer still stands. If I can afford the price…”

She lifts a hand, silences him gracefully. An odd, unexpected emotion crosses her features, although Loki can’t be sure about it, since they are concealed. She seems understanding, almost _sorry_. “We cannot accept your request, because you cannot afford the price. No god can exert influence on a soul. It is not in your nature.”

By the look on her face, he understands there is no point in arguing. He gives her a curt nod and a courtly bow, turns on his heels and leaves.

Valhalla doesn’t feel especially welcoming anymore, let alone a rebirth.

 _Gods don’t die_ , Loki scolds himself, sour, _there is no such thing for us._

 

The last bit of his journey is the one he would like to skip the most.

He has never been especially fond of Asgard’s grandiosity. Right now, as he feels so small and hopeless, it only gets on his nerves.

He finds them gathered in the feasting hall, as per usual. Much to Loki’s hilarity, the gods of all the peoples inhabiting Midgard feast endlessly. _As if they are no good for anything else_ , he would laugh to himself.

Right now, he can barely stand their gazes on him – some curious, some (more) contemptuous.

Frigga is the first one to approach him, rising to her feet to hurry in his direction, worry etched into her old, beautiful face, because as much as she doesn’t like to admit it, she knows Loki would only bear the presence of the other Ӕsir if he were under dire circumstances – and sometimes not even at that point.

“My son,” she greets him, her voice almost booming in the sudden silence that fills the room.

The gods don’t dare to protest when she winds her arms around his neck, standing on her tiptoes to match his considerable height, despite their disapproval being evident in the way they glower at him and their hands ghost over the hafts of their weapons, ready to grab them should the need arise.

Loki doesn’t return the hug, though he does rest his chin on her shoulder and defies the hall with a piercing glare.

“What has you so worried, my Loki?” she murmurs, soothing and affectionate, as she strokes the nape of his neck, where she knows – like mothers know about their children – that he is most sensitive.

He would rather talk to her in private for she is the only one he would ever trust with his weakness, but he is running out of time. He lifts his head, casts her a brief glance and meets the All-Father’s sole grave eye.

“My human is dying,” he declares, tone filled with ice and pride – and the tiniest amount of scare. He pays no mind to the hushed voices repeating _my human_ and making derisive remarks. They know nothing, they understand nothing; they are good for nothing, and even _humans_ are well aware of it. “I humbly request one of Lady Idunn’s apples for him.”

The goddess of immortality looks up from her plate and arches a thin, golden eyebrow. She never liked Loki, for he has played tricks on her ever since he was a young boy – the older he got, the nastier the tricks – but she isn’t to answer first; no one is but Odin himself, since Loki is still one of his sons and the second-born Prince of the Realm Eternal.

The All-Father regards the God of Lies intently for a long time. They have never talked properly after Loki lost the war against Midgard and Odin told him that he still lived and was to spend his days in the dungeons instead of being sentenced to death only because of Frigga’s pleading – the All-Father has never told him that he regrets each word every single day; Loki has never told him that not even the King of Asgard can make him buy a lie.

The godly audience makes the family reunion all the more awkward. At least Thor is absent, Loki ponders absent-mindedly, the kind of insignificant, almost ridiculous thoughts one makes when they don’t want to dwell on much less pleasant matters.

“It cannot be allowed,” Odin replies, like water washing ruthlessly over the flames of his son’s hope. “There are things not even I can do. Defying Fate, especially for a Midgardian’s sake, is one of those.”

Frigga’s warm hands are still on his shoulders, her gaze, now tender and sorrowful, is still on him, but all the god can hear is _I could have done it, father_ and _No, Loki_ , only it hurts so much more.

“However, why bother this much?” comes a voice from the left side of the table. “He is only a mortal.”

Loki’s head snaps in that direction so fast his neck threatens to break. He hasn’t recognized who has spoken, for by now they would have been no more than blood on the floor. He would have made them scream for mercy and crawl at his feet, would have towered over them and listened to their prayers, would have smiled – a smile of the purest vitriol – and said _no_ , and nothing would have been left of them afterwards.

He doesn’t know who it is, though, and for all his rage and his power he couldn’t stand up against so many Asgardians at a time. All he can do is glare at them and utter in a deep, despising voice: “He is _my_ mortal.”

He flexes his fingers, which ache to hurt, to kill even, Frigga catches a dreadful glimpse in his eyes and tries to call his name, “Loki…”, and maybe there is something after that, but the god isn’t listening.

His attention is piqued by yet another voice – this time, he does know who it is and stares Fandral dead in the eye – which asks in a mocking tone: “Then why don’t you feed him your own apple, if he is of such moment?” A short, cruel pause, as the warrior raises his voice in order to make sure everyone hears him. “Perhaps he isn’t important enough for you to give up your immortality for him, though.”

Much to the whole hall’s surprise, Loki – Loki Silvertongue, Loki the Liesmith, Loki the Word-crafter – is silent.

He clenches his hands into fists and his nails dig into his palms until he feels droplets of blood running down his fingers and falling to the ground, but he says nothing.

Of course, it is the obvious conclusion and he doubts Fandral has been the first one to come to it, only the first one brave enough to voice it; if he is so concerned about a Midgardian, he could sacrifice himself for him. It is simple enough: he gives Stark the apple that is destined to him and the man lives.

Any valiant warrior hoping to be welcomed into Valhalla would do it.

Except Loki isn’t valiant; he is Loki, and he is a coward.

Once again, Frigga attempts to call out for him; once again, the god doesn’t listen, isn’t even in the golden hall anymore.

He has left again and again she hasn’t been able to keep him with her.

The woman clutches her hands where her son’s shoulders used to be mere moments before and grasps nothing but air and absence.

 

In the end, his final destination is where the journey itself has begun.

The first thing he sees is a green line, plain and unmoving; the first thing he hears is the prolonged _beep_ of the machine monitoring life signs. Only, there is no life sign to be monitored.

Loki’s everything sinks.

Then he notices the bed and, more importantly, the man lying in it, motionless and pale and cold.

He doesn’t know who it is. It isn’t Stark.

The god tries to reach for the time-space breach he usually travels through, but covering the long distances among the dimensions is taking its toll on him and he nearly collapses on the floor when his attempt goes awry.

As he places an arm against the wall to hold himself up, a feminine voice catches his attention and he lifts his head up to meet the green, steady eyes of Pepper Potts watching him from the doorway.

“He was dismissed four days ago.” She has never been one to waste time on small talk – Loki likes her for that, too. “He woke up and convinced Director Fury that he was healthy enough to go home and work on some project of his. He has been locked up in his workshop ever since and says he won’t see anyone – not even me – until you come back. I thought it best to wait for you here, because maybe you wouldn’t know that he got out of the hospital.”

By the sigh she doesn’t heave, but Loki notices nonetheless, he can tell she clearly disapproves of Fury’s decision and of Stark’s folly.

There are no other trivial words needed; she walks out and the god follows her suit, using what little magic he has left to conceal himself and slip among the mortals unnoticed. He doesn’t need S.H.I.E.L.D. agents questioning.

It takes the car the whole time it took him to fall from the Bifrost to get to Stark Tower.

As soon as Potts parks the vehicle, Loki is out of it and on his way to the workshop in possibly the longest, fastest strides he has ever taken. JARVIS lets him in without hesitation and he steps into the odd, unexpected darkness of the lab.

Loki blinks, uncertain. Stark’s workshop has never been deprived of electricity before, as far as he can remember – there would always be holoscreens flickering to blue life, clumsy robots hurrying back and forth and machines buzzing. It scares him now; it seems, _feels_ lifeless, as if even it has lost hope.

“Hey, been out for quite a while, haven’t you?”

He startles, caught off guard by that familiar, cheerful voice, and seeks for its owner, but he sees nothing and Stark doesn’t switch on the light. “Where are you?” he asks, wary.

“Right here,” is the obvious reply, which makes the god snort despite the gravity of the situation.

“That I can very well see myself,” he remarks, scrunching up his nose, all regal dignity wasted in the dark. He is only delaying the inevitable explanation and they both know it. The Midgardian doesn’t answer; Loki sighs and reveals slowly: “I was looking for a cure for you.” He bites down onto his lower lip – _hard_ , hoping it will hurt more than it hurts to say this. It doesn’t. “I failed.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d try something like that. Turning me into some kind of god or whatnot. I also didn’t expect you to succeed, really, what with the actual gods being jealous of their immortality.”

The god furrows his brows and crosses his arms over his chest. He never doubted Stark wasn’t clever enough to figure it out, yet it still irks him to hear it voiced with such a carefree attitude.

A spiteful retort is crawling its way up his throat, when the man says something else and Loki almost chokes on the words that never manage to get out.

“That’s why I developed my own homemade, Stark-branded immortality, no angry and potentially deadly gods involved.” His revelation is met by a frozen, heavy silence, which spurs him to go on: “Err, I know, I never talked to you about it. It was just a side project, a thing I tinkered with when I had nothing better to work on… It was supposed to be the proverbial “last hope”. I didn’t expect I’d need my last hope so soon.”

The god doesn’t know whether to be more amazed, more furious or just befuddled. Part of him wants to lash out and kill the Midgardian on the spot, part of him wants to know more; part of him is just glad that Stark isn’t dead yet.

“What did you do?” He is oddly quiet, still unsure about how to react.

The hesitation is barely there, so brief and impalpable most people wouldn’t notice it, but Loki isn’t even close to the definition of “most people”.

“Do you remember Extremis?”

The man doesn’t give him enough time to process the information properly, mindful of the first time he mentioned the serum to the god and Loki almost blew up the workshop out of rage. Maybe on this particular occasion the god wouldn’t mind taking it down with him inside.

“I’m sure you do. Well, I dug up the blueprints some years ago, changed some minor details, improved a few things here and there… Turned out the serum is safe enough to be tried on humans with only a fifty-eight percent chance of death and it works even better than before, gives you more power, makes your life considerably longer, maybe not ever-lasting, but with a bit more…”

“Fifty-eight percent,” the god growls at last. “You tried it on yourself when it was only forty-two percent safe?”

“Loki.”

He doesn’t need to see Stark’s eyes; he feels them, sky blue and honest, boring into his skin.

“It was either that or one hundred and ten percent to die from hepatic fuck-whatever-it’s-called. You really think I would’ve waited in a bed until death came to me? No thanks, not that kind of guy.”

Loki can’t argue that and doesn’t. It isn’t that important right now, not when, in any case, the Midgardian shouldn’t be still here and instead is. “So, what happened? Why are you staying here, all alone in the dark? What went wrong?”

“Wrong?” A long pause, as though Stark has never considered that one of his plans could possibly go wrong. The god can picture him furrowing his brow. “I’m not sure. I mean, the light. J turned it on and I nearly destroyed the lab. Guess I did a bit of short-circuiting inadvertently. I thought I’d better wait for you if, you know, if I lost control again. Didn’t want to hurt Pep by mistake. Think you can… contain me, if it comes to it?”

The realization strikes Loki then: the man is frightened of himself, of his new potential.

He hasn’t locked everyone out, he has locked himself _in_ , like a monster, like Loki himself wished he could have done when his skin first turned Jötunn blue.

The god knows, understands and holds out both hands. “I am here,” he whispers, promises in a low breath. “Let me see you.”

Stark’s answer doesn’t come in words.

A few feet away from Loki, a dim light flickers to life: weak at first, it then grows brighter and brighter in the shape of Tony Stark, looking exceptionally healthy and thirty-six again. Except his skin and eyes are glowing red like they never did back then.

The shadow of a self-deprecating smile ghosts over his lips as the Midgardian clears his throat and looks away from the god, who is watching him, drinking him in far too intently for his tastes.

“So, uh, how do I look?” He tries a laugh, but it comes out bitter, means _am I so unbearable a sight?_

Loki doesn’t know what the man sees, doesn’t claim to, doesn’t try to comfort him, because he knows how it feels when people tell you they understand and they don’t and you still have to thank them although they are no help at all.

He simply looks at him and sees life, fire and warmth, and it is more than what he hoped for, more than he believed possible. “Gorgeous.” He reaches out, stops mid-air, concern and uncertainty written over his face as he chews on his lower lip. He doesn’t like asking for permission. “I want to touch you.”

Surprised and delighted, Stark actually laughs this time, a rich, powerful sound, so unlike the rattling, rusty voice he had only a few days before. “Be careful, I don’t want to burn you.”

“Oh,” Loki reciprocates the smile with a mischievous grin, “I could use a little _hot_.”

They still have problems, they still don’t talk about them.

As long as at least one of them finds the solution, it is almost fine. They can do with _almost fine_.


End file.
